In Golden Armor

by Spooky Armalite

Rating: mature
Tags: Adventure, Tragedy, Dark, Romance
Length: 3140

Red Ink goes to war.

Equestria goes to war, Red Ink goes with it.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-07-08 04:04:14 UTC

Prologue

There are two types of ponies that tell no tales; dead ones and royal guards. Private Red Ink had fulfilled his duty.  He had defended his country in its time of need.  He had answered the call to arms.  He had fought bravely in the face of death, and he had come out victorious.  He had saved countless lives of both innocents and fellow guards.

In the battle of Canyon Falls he took a magic bolt to the leg, which earned him three days out of the war.  In the battle of Frozen Fields his sanity shivered under the awesome might of war.

Lance was killed in Canyon Falls, Pierce and Chain in Asodikagh, Sword in Agohaj, Knight, Coal, Lantern, Case, and Duty in Uytag.  In the battle of Uytag Hills, Private Red Ink was missing in action.  He was last seen taking the blade of a griffin warrior through his chest.  His body was not recovered.

After two months time, Private Red Ink was found by the Equestrian Border Guard.  Alive.

A Clean Road to War

Everything had to look perfect.  He had to look his best.  His house was dusted, and his floor was swept.  She would be there soon, and he wanted to make a good impression; even if she was just staying for a few minutes.  His mane was combed, his gray coat was polished like granite marble.  And as he stared into the mirror, memories came rushing back of a place far away, and a time he failed to forget.

_____

Red Ink wasn't sure when they'd arrived in the town of Yelue, but while they were resting, he saw that while the war had already touched the town with its cold graze, the town's ponies had cleaned up.  They had wanted to look their best for the Equestrian soldiers.  With no international conflict in over a thousand years, the Equestrian's reputations was still pure enough that they were viewed as the shining beacon of the world.  The stone was swept and dusted, the windows were wiped, and the rubble was cleaned from the streets.  Red Ink found himself wandering into an alleyway adjacent to an old coffee shop.  The cleanliness hadn't reached here.  Chipped away, yellow plaster covered the dirty cobblestone.

Red Ink brushed away some of the plaster, and found a dried, dark blood stain on the stone.  For a moment, Red Ink tried to picture the victim.  What did they look like?  What was their job?  Were they a baker or a blacksmith?  But in the end, Red Ink found it easier to cover the blood stain once more, and leave the alley.

Outside, Red Ink looked around him as the other soldiers sat on stone benches and engaged in anxious small talk.  War was staring at them over blood stained fields, and they were staring right back, swords at the ready.  He looked around at his fellow soldiers; his brothers.  Red Ink was the father figure of the platoon, being an ancient age of thirty five.  Some of the kids in his platoon were the same age as the ones he taught.

Good luck Mr.Ink!  Send those griffins my regards!  I'll join ya in a few months!  I'm signing up as soon as I'm legal.  The school created a big farewell-best-wishes card for him, signed by all the students.  Every now and then on his leave during basic he'd visit the kids and tell them to stay in school and out of the war, but he knew it was a lost cost.  Hard Hitter, don't.  You don't want to go to war.  Haven't you listened to anything I've taught you? The kids in his school had as much pride in their country as the griffins did in theirs.  Yeah Mr. Ink I did.  And I also listened when they told us about the Border Guard platoon that was butchered.  Those griffins have taken it too far Mr. Ink, and I'm gonna help give em what for.

Red Ink saw a trio of his closest friends in the platoon by a ruined fountain.  Red Ink slowly made his way over where they were, the whole time trying to block out the desolate buildings around him.  Linked Chain sat next to Heavy Duty with Black Hat standing across from them.

They exchanged greetings while Red Ink sat down against the fountain lip.  Heavy Duty told him that they were talking about sticking knives on the end of archer's bows so they could fight in close quarters.  They wanted his opinion because being a teacher, he'd know if it was a good idea or not.

Red Ink told them that he was a history teacher, not a weapon smith.  Linked Chain told Ink that they knew that, but being a teacher of any subject still made him an educated pony.  Ink pondered telling them it could work, and let them continue believing that they were innovators, but decided against it. Red Ink told them that the knives would probably disrupt the careful balance of the bow and cause it to be inaccurate or shatter entirely.  The soldiers thanked him for his opinion, and continued to discuss how kickflank it would be to see a pony twirling a bow around, slicing and dicing enemies.

Red Ink felt a little offended by them ignoring him.  But a part of him believed that they already knew it wouldn't work, and that they just wanted to put the image in his head; spread the love of the flank kicking mare with the ninja bow.  But no matter how much he tried to picture it, all he could see was her pulling the string back, only for the bow to snap in her face; probably take out an eye before being taken down by the enemy she were going to kill.

Red Ink stood by his friends whilst they rambled on about impossible things, and really focused on the soldiers around him.  After all, they could all die tomorrow.  being older than most colts in his company by fifteen years had its advantages, but it also had its disadvantages.

Of the disadvantages, was that he was slower, and weaker than some of the younger colts in the company. Even after spending much of his career working with teenagers, he still couldn't associate with them as much as he would like.  Of the advantages, Ink was more experienced, and he had a sense of morality that the others just didn't have.  He'd been around a long time, and he'd seen bad things happen to good ponies.  He knew that there was a good chance he wouldn't come back alive.  And if he did, he knew that no matter what, he wouldn't come back as Red Ink, but as a soldier.

And as he sat there next to his friends in a town that had felt the cold blow of war, preparing to face the worst kind of disagreements; he took it all in.  He took in the sight of the town that desperately tried to cover up the battle scars, the way one would cover up a disfigurement.   He took in the sounds of soldiers muttering small talk, trying not to show their anticipation and worry, and instead swaggered about and bolstered.  He took in the way townsfolk would give food or water to some of the soldiers, but shake their heads at their banter, for they knew better.  But most of all, he took in the way he felt.  He tried to find the root of his curiosity for the town, its folk, the countryside around him; because he knew that when this was all over, one way or another, he wouldn't care anymore.

A Sunny Day On the Griffin Front

Red Ink sat in his trench, not daring to look out into the wasteland beyond him. No pony's land.  It was pockmarked with craters from the pony's artillery.  Griffin and pony bodies littered the field, like a bumpy, fleshy carpet; hidden under the mud, and the dirt, and the flies.

Red Ink counted down the seconds from ten, telling himself that when he hit zero the griffins would charge.  He had been there for two hours.  Zero.  Nothing.  More waiting.  Other ponies trotted behind him in the trenches, mumbling soft curses and complaints.  They hadn't figured it out yet.  It was best not to complain.  Those that were new always complained, but they stopped after the first few weeks.

There were no weather ponies there to regulate the skies, but it was a bright sunny day regardless.  Perhaps it would have raised the spirits of the soldiers, but all it did was make the corpses rot faster.  Zero.  Red Ink's armor was worn and stained from dirty water, mud, spit, and blood.  His sword was chipped and shortened from his sharpening.  He'd been on the Griffin front for three months now.

A replacement asked Ink when they were going to attack.  Red Ink steeled himself and continued to stare at the wall of the trench, counting down the seconds.  The recruit's last name was Powder, maybe.  Red Ink tried not to remember the names of the recruits, and nobody fraternized with them.  They weren't worthy, and most of them would be killed before they would be worthy.  Zero.

He heard Black Hat holler for him, and no doubt the griffins fifty yards away heard him.  Red Ink looked up from the trench wall and saw that the replacement had left, something Ink was glad for.  He didn't want to see his face.  He made his way down the trench, passing several platoon mates along the way.

Ink reached Black Hat, who sat with one of Ink's closest friends in the company, Linked Chain.  They were seated on a stack of old worn timber, tucked away in a pocket in the trenches. Red Ink sat down on his haunches in the mud and leaned against the wooden wall of the trench pocket.  Zero.

Linked Chain told him how he needed an opinion on a subject, that being that if the griffins were letting wounded go off the front lines, why didn't they just let soldiers who'd had enough of war?  Red Ink had thought of that question many times, but told Chain that they weren't here to think, they were here to kill griffins.  Zero.

Chain laughed while Black Hat muttered something about bucking teachers.  Chain Link asked him if he'd thought about it.

Red Ink told him yes, he had.  Chain replied that if all the soldiers just stopped, then there wouldn't be a war anyway.  Red Ink nodded his head.  But they won't.  And so there is a war.

Chain grinned and looked around the trench, littered with filthy, smelly, tired, scared, and angry ponies.  Yeah, there sure is a war isn't there?  Zero.

____

Red Ink blinked and glanced at the clock above it read 6 o'clock.  She would be arriving any minute.  Red Ink closed his eyes and sighed as he sank deeper into the chair.  Zero.

When Ponies and Griffins Meet to Debate

Somewhere down the line, a whistle blew.  Then another, and another.  Soon, Hard Case was blowing his, and scrambling out of the trench.  Red Ink pulled himself up after Sharp Lance, and drew his sword.  There was no sound besides the shrill cry of the whistles, the clanking of armor, and the thumps of hooves and talons in the dirt.  When the whistles ceased their scream, all that was left was sounds of a company run.

Red Ink closed his eyes, and was able to picture himself galloping with his company, not at war, but through a lush forest.  There was no war.  White Knight was still alive, and galloping ahead of him.  To his left was Long Shot and to his right was his best friend, Linked Chain.  Behind him was Worn Rag; the eighteen year old colt from Manehatten.

Then the lines collided.  Red Ink forced his weary eyes open to see somepony from a separate company deflect a griffin's parry before thrusting his own sword into the side of the griffin.  Ink slowed to a halt and looked around as ponies and griffins fell in horrifying embraces.

Without his saying so, his body lunged forward and rammed his short sword deep into the back of a griffin who had tackled a fellow guard.  Ink pulled his sword out before a griffin warrior whipped a mace forward, pulverizing the dead griffin.  Before Ink could react, another guard blind sided the griffin and sent them both toppling to the ground.  The two were soon lost in a sea of young boys fighting.

Red Ink still couldn't hear anything.  He didn't hear the griffin scream when he brought the sword edge across his throat, and he didn't hear the pony scream when the blade reached the end of its curve; the blood of the griffin mixed and ran with the pony's before sliding down onto the earth.

Bolts of magic shot overhead, and pony artillery hammered the griffin lines.  But that was all far away from Ink.  All that mattered was the young griffin in front of him, and how he needed to shove his sword into him until he stopped moving so they could win.  And so he did just that.  However, the battle was far from over.

Ink heard another whistle blow, signaling for a retreat.  The ground shook with the thunder of artillery as the ponies magicked the griffin lines. Ink turned and started back to his lines.  He glanced to his left and saw Short Sword galloping next to him, eyes staring straight ahead with a calm expression.  Ink continued to gallop until he reached the trenches, where he slowed down, and turned around.

Behind him, griffin survivors were picking off ponies who'd been left behind.  Ink stared out until he saw Short Sword struggling to his hooves.  A griffin warrior was behind him, sword raised high in the air above.  The griffin hesitated for just a second, before bringing it down on Short Sword.  The griffin stared down at the body for a second, before looking up, and right into Red Ink's eyes.

And then the griffin was gone.  Lost in a haze of green smoke as the blast faded away.  Red Ink felt hooves pull him into the trenches as the ponies magicked no pony's land once again.  But Ink couldn't forget the griffin's eyes.  They were a vibrant, cheerful orange.  They were so much like his.

____

Red Ink slowly faded back into reality.  Night had fallen, and his date would arrive at any second.  Ink found himself staring at the mirror across the room, two orbs of orange staring right back.  He contained a shudder, before turning to the door.  He saw the silhouette of a mare through the window.  Mustering his courage, Ink stood up and trotted to the door.

He gulped before pulling it open.  On the other side was a tall, steel colored unicorn mare.  Her hair was a light shade of blue, and was pulled back into a tail with the bangs tied with dark grey braids.  Her tail was braided at the base.  Her eyes were a deep green but shone with curiosity and intelligence.  "Hi, nice to finally meet you face to face."  Her name was Wonderwall.

A Night on the Town

"Mr. Ink?"  Red Ink mentally shook himself awake and looked over at the filly who had spoken.  It was Hidden Brush, standing in front of his desk, biting her lip.

"Yes Miss Brush?"

"I..."  She paused and seemed to collect herself.  "I'm enlisting."

Red Ink let his quill fall onto his papers.  "I see.  And, what inspired you to do this?"

Hidden was quiet for a second.  "Because... because I can't bring myself not to."  Red Ink was about to interrupt when she continued,  "I mean, I see everypony signing up, ponies I've known for years and... and they're going off to a place where they'll probably die!"  Red Ink let her continue.  "I want to help.  I'm enlisting in the 107th Medical Battalion.  She spoke the last statement with determination.

Red Ink had taught Hidden for two years now.  She was a straight A student, and she was the president of the Leftovers club, a club at the school where kids could get together and hang out.  She was kind, funny, smart, and a bombshell among the colts.  And there was nothing Red Ink could do to stop her.

"Have you told your parents?"

Hidden nodded her head.

Ink sighed.  "So why tell me?"  He asked, wishing she hadn't.

She gave a small smile and her eyes twinkled with a youthful spark.  "Because I want you to be prepared for when they start erecting statues for my heroism.

Red Ink crawled on his stomach through the field, dragging his bandaged chest through the soft, fertile dirt.  His chest hurt.  The last thing he remembered, we being stabbed in the chest by a griffin recruit.  He'd been flanked and caught without his sword, and then he'd been stabbed in the chest.

He remembered how he'd turned, and caught the griffin with his sword pulled back for a thrust.  The griffin's green eyes had gone wide, then he'd thrust the sword through Red Ink's breastplate, and into his chest.  He remembered feeling the blade passing through his skin and flesh and into his body.

Red Ink shuddered and let his sweaty, bloody head fall the the ground.  He'd fallen unconscious in nopony's land.  During that time, the Griffins had overrun the Celestial Guard.  Red Ink's platoon was nowhere to be found. To follow his retreating platoon would mean to run right into the advancing griffin forces.   However, there was a griffin town roughly twenty miles pas the abandoned griffin trenches.   And so, Red Ink started walking.  He walked past the empty Griffin trenches, and he continued walking.

And now it was night.  Luna's moon shone overhead giving him little visibility.  He continued to crawl, his head dragging in the dirt, until he ran into something wooden.  For a few seconds, Red Ink didn't do anything.  He chose to simply lay there and think about how easy it would be to just fall asleep.  And then he opened his eyes, and dragged himself to his hooves.  He had butted headfirst into the side of a house.

He stared up at the dark windows for a moment, taking in the silence with boundless apathy.  "Don't move."

Red Ink obliged.  The voice then told him to turn around slowly.  Red Ink obliged.  He grunted and wheezed as he rolled himself over onto his back.  A bright light flickered to life from the source of the voice, causing Ink to shield his eyes from its angry glare.  The griffin holding the torch and pitchfork to his neck cursed his griffonic gods.  The griffin told Red Ink that Red Ink was a Celestial Guard.  Red Ink nodded his head and confirmed that he was indeed, a Celestial Guard.

The two sat in silence for a minute, Red Ink, lost in the pain and the griffin lost in thought.  The griffin asked Ink if he could walk, to which ink responded with a shrug.

The griffin stared at him for a moment before chucking the pitchfork into the earth beside him and reaching out with a claw.  Red Ink numbly slipped his hoof into the griffin's grasp and allowed the griffin to tug him to his wobbling hooves.  "Get walking, kid."

Red Ink slowly stumbled a few steps before muttering to the griffin that he wasn't a kid, that he was indeed, twenty-nine, and then his hooves crumbled under his body and he passed out.

House Guest

Red Ink awoke with a moan, and struggled to get out of the bed, only to find his hooves tied down.